


Hal's Records

by animehead



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animehead/pseuds/animehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal’s carries more than just records, it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hal's Records

You go to Hal’s Records on 19th Street because Hal has the shit you like and you don’t have to rummage through all the bullshit other record stores carry. You’re standing next to one of those typical hipsters—oversized glasses, one arm covered in tattoos, various colorful bracelets hanging from the other one. He’s talking loudly, iPhone cradled carefully in his hand, blabbing to someone about having a gig downtown. 

You consider snatching the phone from him and shoving it down his throat, but the last thing you need is some dumb ass hipster calling the cops on you. Instead, you wait patiently for the loser to move out of the way so you can finally take a look at more vinyl to add to your collection. 

You just get your fingers on the record in front when the main entrance door flings open and some random greaser rushes inside, eyes wide, panting heavily like he just finished running a marathon. He scans the room, spots you, and walks quickly in your direction.  

“Hey, chief, do me a favor,” greaser guy says. He stands in front of you and cranes his neck to the side, staring out one of the large windows before cursing and straightening up again. “Think you could keep a watch out for a chick in pink glasses carryin’ a knife?”

“Not interested,” you say and dip your head to continue looking at the records. 

“Look,” he says, slightly panicked. “I’ll do whatever you want, okay?” He ducks down, not actually touching you, but using your body as a shield.

“Buy me whatever I want outta’ here?” 

“What? You’re kiddin’?”

“I think I see her coming. Maybe I should move out of the way to be sure.”

“Fine, okay. Whatever. I’ll buy you whatcha’ you want.”

You smirk and glance out the window just in time to see who you assume is the chick the greaser is running from. She looks pissed and you find it amusing that she doesn’t bother to hide the switchblade she’s walking around with. 

She must feel you watching her because she turns and stares at you through the window. You stare back at her for a second before she glares and continues down the sidewalk. 

“Came and gone,” you say. 

“Thank fucking god.” The greaser stands up straight and sighs. “Let me tell you, chief. This town is full of crazy ass dames.”

“What’d you do?” You ask. 

You’re curious. 

“Nothin’, nothin’,” he says. “We just gotta’ lotta’ history, me and her.”

“Whatever.” You know when you’re being baited into asking more questions and you’re not  _that_  interested. You scan over the records, taking your time, before selecting the three you want. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Your invoice.”

He looks down at the records before scowling. “Guess they’re no kind people in the world anymore, eh, chief? Everyone’s out to get somethin’.”

“Guess so,” you agree. 

Still scowling, he snatches the records from you and walks up to the counter. You follow after him, checking him out. You won’t lie, you like what you see. 

Kid’s got a nice ass. 

You walk up behind him just as he slides a credit card out of his wallet. A Visa Black Card to be more specific. 

Who the fuck is this guy?

“If I knew you were carrying that, I would have got more stuff.”

He glances at you and smirks. “Yeah, well, I don’t like to brag, but I’m a pretty popular musician.”

“That so? Well, shit. Let me grab your record, too. I’ll even pay for that one on my own.”

“W-Well, I’m, uh… I’m more of a… underground act. I mean, I don’t like all that record deal business. Too, uh, messy. You know what I mean, chief?”

“Yeah. You’re living off daddy’s dollar. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

He narrows his eyes at you, takes the offered pen from the cashier’s hand, and scribbles his signature on the store copy of the receipt. He hands you the bag and you take it, pleased with your choice, and even more pleased that you didn’t have to spend your own money to get it. 

“Nice doing business with you,” you say before walking over to exit door. You think that’s the end of that, but you hear his footsteps trailing behind you even after you’ve stepped outside. 

“So you gotta’ name, chief?” He asks you. 

“Strider.” He’s close enough that you can smell whatever it is he has slathered in his hair. 

“Strider,” he repeats. “I like that. So what’s your deal, Strider? You in a band or somethin’?”

“DJ.”

“DJ, eh?” He nods, approvingly. “That’s all right. Don’t know too many cats who DJ. Or any, really, but, uh… yeah. I’m Cronus, by the way.” 

When you don’t reply, he continues. 

“You don’t talk much, do you, Strider?”

“Don’t need to.”

He’s quiet for a moment, as if he’s trying to figure out what to say next. He looks confused, like he’s used all of his best lines and doesn’t have anything left. It’s pretty pathetic and you know you could just walk away, leaving him to feel like the idiot he probably is. 

But you’re bored. 

And kind of wondering how his ass looks outside of those ridiculously cuffed jeans. 

“Well, I don’t know about you, Cronus,” you say. “But I got better things to do than to stand in front of a fucking record store all day.”

“O-Oh, y-yeah, me too. I should probably get back myself. Got some lyrics I’m workin’ on, you know? Started them before that dame started chasin’ me half around the fuckin’ city. I mean, I don’t have it all figured out, but you gotta’ get ‘em down while they’re still fresh. Otherwise they’ll end up half written in the ole notebook.”

He talks too fucking much, but there’s something about him that makes you wonder what else he has to say. Probably because you know everything he’s saying is bullshit and the biggest bullshitters are usually the most fascinating to listen to. 

“I could help you out with that,” you offer. “If you want to tag along.”

“Really?” Cronus says, before clearing his throat. “I mean, eh, sure. I guess anything for the music, right?”

“I’m this way.” You nod your head to the left and begin walking, not bothering to wait to see if he’s following you or not. You make a game of seeing how long it takes for him to come up with an excuse to leave before the two of you get to your place. 

You lose. 

He talks—mostly about himself—the entire way to your apartment. When you open the door, he walks inside before you can even take the key out of the knob. You snort softly before shutting the door behind you. 

“Pretty nice place you got here, Strider,” Cronus says as you place your records down on the coffee table. “Not all that big, but you know what they say. Ain’t the size that matters, it’s what you can do with it.”

“Yeah, they do say that,” you reply. “Ain’t true, but fuck if they ain’t got the whole world believing it.”

Cronus snickers and walks over to the couch. “Yeah, I hear that, chief. But uh, yeah, it’s a nice place. It’s uh, what’s that word I’m lookin’ for,  _cozy_. Yeah, that’s the one. Nice and co— What the fuck is that?” 

Cronus points his finger over at the window, eyes narrowed in confusion. You think for a minute that he’s spotted Cal, but after a quick glance, you realize he’s actually pointing at a couple of your smuppets lounging on the floor. 

“Smuppets.”

“Yeah, that don’t really help me out all that much, chief.”

“I make them.”

“Why do their noses look like dicks?” 

You ease off your jacket and shrug. “Why not?”

“You get into some pretty weird shit, eh, Strider?”

You sit down, draping your jacket over the arm of the sofa and fold your hands behind your head. Your couch is old, but it’s comfortable. “Depends on what you mean by weird. Different people, different definitions.”

Cronus snickers and sits down at the opposite end of the sofa. “Yeah, well, I think makin’ puppets with dicks for noses is pretty fuckin’ weird by anyone’s standards.”

You close your eyes. “Yeah, maybe for a innocent kid like you.”

“Vanilla,” Cronus repeats. “Aye, aye, I don’t know what you think you might know about me, but Cronus fuckin’ Ampora ain’t no innocent cat.” 

“Is that so?”

“Damn straight.”

“Feel free to prove that statement.”

Cronus stares at you and from the expression on his face, you assume he’s trying to figure out whether you’re serious or not. 

“Heh, you’re somethin’ else, Strider,” he says. “A real card. A fuckin’ handful.”

“I can promise you, you’ll need more than one hand, bro.”

Again, Cronus stares at you with that same confused expression. He’s probably used to being the one trying to persuade people out of their pants. The hilarious part is that you’re barely trying. 

“You fuckin’ with me?”

“How about we drop the ‘with’ and get this shit going?”

Cronus licks his lips and tilts his head. He’s thinking it over and you’re pretty fucking confident of what he’ll decide. He chuckles, shakes his head, and concedes. 

Just like you knew he would. 

“Fuck it. What the hell,” he says. “Hope you’re worth it, Strider.”

Actions speak louder than words, so you don’t reply. You just grab Cronus by the collar of his jacket and jerk him forward. There’s a look of shock on his face, the startled what-the-fuck-did-I-get-myself-into look that you’ve come to know and love from your occasional conquests. 

“Easy, Strider,” Cronus breathes out when you continue pulling him until he has no choice but to straddle you. 

“What? Do I need to lay you on a bed of fucking roses?” You mutter as you pull him closer. You lick along his neck, nipping and tasting slightly salty skin. He gasps and rocks his hips against yours, fingers reaching up to dig gently into your shoulders. 

“Hey, I ain’t no dame,” he says. “Let’s get that straight. Just because I’m letting you…” He trails off, groaning when you grip his hips and raise your own, grinding your uncomfortably covered erection against that perfect ass of his. 

It takes too fucking long, but you finally get him out of his clothes. Yours have been off ever since he climbed off of you to go about the stripping off of every article of his clothing in a painstakingly slow way. Seconds before he’s ready to resume his position on your lap, you ask him to get lube and a condom out of your bathroom just so you can see his bare ass as he walks down the hall. 

He complains, but he does it and that’s all that matters. 

When he comes back, you reach up to take the lube from him, but he pushes your hand out of the way. “Don’t think you’re the only one runnin’ the show here, Strider.” He rips open the condom wrapper with his teeth and lets the packaging fall to the floor. Smirking at you, he lowers himself to the floor where he rolls the condom onto your cock and you get a good feel of how soft his hands actually are. 

You bet he’s never worked a day in his life. 

Popping open the cap, he pours a bit of lube into his palm before kneeling in front of you. You try to maintain eye contact with him the entire time from the moment his slick hand wraps around your cock, but fuck he’s talented.

You gasp softly and grip his wrist. “If you plan on doing that all day, I got news for you.” 

Still holding onto his wrist, you jerk your arm back, pulling him with you until he’s crawling back on top of you. His hands are on either side of your head, gripping the top of the sofa. He leans forward, pressing his chest against your own, and raises his hips. 

You don’t hesitate to slide into him, holding back a groan from the series of gasps he makes when you jerk your hips to force your cock completely inside of him. 

You wish you could have recoded that, set it as your ringtone, maybe. 

“Fuck, Strider.” His head is on your shoulder, lips hovering over your neck. You feel the heat from his breath ghosting over your skin. 

“That’s the plan,” you say and raise your hips, slamming into him. He cries out and leans forward, but you grip his hips and push him back down. You’ve barely even started and already he’s running from you. 

“I know you ain’t used to any  _real_  manual labor,” you taunt him. “But you’re gonna’ fucking sweat today.” 

Still gripping his hips, you use your hands to rock him back and forth, grinding him down as hard as you can while occasionally thrusting up inside of him. It’s too much for him and he claws at your fingers, crying out, trying—and failing—to control the momentum you’ve picked up. Eventually, though, you decide to see what he’s all about and you slow down, release his hips, and let him handle things. 

“You’re a fuckin’ machine,” he mutters through gasps of breath. But he leans back a bit and circles his hips. “Ain’t anyone ever teach you about takin’ your time?”

“I know more about ti… Hnngh…” He squeezes, ass gripping your cock so perfectly that you forget what you’d been going to say. 

You’re impressed. 

He smirks down at you, all bright white teeth and inky black hair. You want to fuck that grin right off his face, but the desire to lie back and watch him work his hips is stronger. He’s got rhythm, you’ll give him that. You’ve had to reach down to stop him from moving more times than you’re willing to admit to. 

“Doin’ all right down there, chief?” He asks with a teasing smirk on his face. 

“No problems here,” you say and you slide your hand around his cock. He hisses and slows down his hips, eyes closing, head lowering. “Except you’re barely moving.”

“Y-Yeah, yeah, I know. Give me a second, chief. I just—”

“Times up,” you say. You slam your hips up, hand still stroking his cock and he curses and tries yet again to pull up, but you have your other hand on his hip, rocking him, forcing him not only to take each of your thrusts, but to continue grinding on top of you while doing it. 

He’s a mess now, panting and whimpering broken versions of your surname. He keeps trying to convince you to slow down. He’s a competitive little shit who wants to outlast you, and you’re not too sure, but you think he might be  _incapable_  of shutting the hell up. 

You shove your tongue in his mouth to help him out with that. 

Cronus’ hands grip at your shoulders, scratching and squeezing out of desperation. You know he’s close, you can tell by the way he tries to pull away from the kiss. 

You trap his bottom lip between your teeth to keep him from being successful. 

He’s a worthy adversary, just not worthy enough. 

You mentally congratulate yourself when he tenses around you and cries out in both pleasure and defeat. Your palm is warm and sticky from his cum spurting into your hand and dribbling down your wrist. You keep stroking him even when he slumps against you, panting and whimpering incoherent words into your ear. 

It’s the whimpering that does it. 

You let go of both his cock and his hip in lieu of grabbing onto his shoulders, smearing cum against his skin, and shove him down,  _hard._ Youhold him there while you grunt and get every last cent of your money’s worth from Trojan. He nips weakly at your ear and you shudder and squeeze his shoulders for good measure. 

“Damn.”

“Yeah, ‘bout what I was thinkin’,” he says. He sounds just as exhausted as you feel. 

You help him climb off of you and he collapses, sated and spent, on the couch next to you. He’s not the least bit modest and you’re already wondering what position you’ll fuck him in next. He’s quiet for a moment and his head is lowered, but you’re pretty fucking sure that you see a pitiful, little, blush working its way across his cheeks. 

“Heh, so I guess the helpin’ me with lyrics thing was just shit, eh?”

You’ve seen his type before and you know his personality is worth about as much as an empty beer can, but you like him. Well, you like his ass more than anything, but you’re sure buried under all that greasy hair and stereotypical get up are some redeeming qualities.  

“I’m a man of my word,” you say as you stand. You pull the condom off and toss it in the small wastebasket next to the couch. It’ll be a nice surprise for Dave when he gets home, no doubt bringing dorky and loud mouth along with him. “Let’s go.” You start walking down the hall toward your room and Cronus hops off the couch and begins gathering his clothes. 

“You won’t need those.”

“Yeah, well, I’m thinkin’ I should put ‘em  on, anyway,” he says in a way that tells you that he knows exactly what you’re up to and that he won’t fall for it a second time. 

That’s fine. You wonder how many verses you can get down before you’re talking him out of his clothes again. You guess about four or five, six at the most. 

“Wow, that’s some bed, chief.” Cronus says after you open your bedroom door and let him inside. “Those sheets, I like the color. It’s almost like you were expectin’ me or somethin’,” he jokes. 

Scratch that. You’re throwing all your chips in and betting that you won’t get a single verse written tonight. You’re feeling pretty fucking lucky.

Leave it to Hal’s to always have what you need. 


End file.
